First Impressions
by grannysknitting
Summary: Meet the Holmes'. John gains some insight into the environment that produced the two prodigies - Sherlock and Mycroft.


**First Impressions – Sherlock BBC Fic**

Pre-dates Dragged Up

Written: November 2nd, 18:22

Current Mood: exanimate

Current Music: coldplay

0o0o0

John had been more than a little surprised when his flatmate had informed him that morning that they would be going to lunch at the Holmes' family estate. Sunday luncheons... meeting his flatmates parents... the connotations didn't bear thinking about, so John ignored them, preferring to rack it up to another of Sherlock's blind spots when it came to social interactions and expectations.

"A bit of warning would have been nice," he said instead, "I might have had plans."

"No, I made sure you didn't," was the immediate response. Which begged the question - had Sherlock simply deduced that John had no other plans, or had he somehow manipulated John's social network so that no other plans could be made? From the smirk on his flatmate's face, John could tell that Sherlock knew exactly what he was thinking and wasn't planning to clear the matter up at all. Giving up - because it was easier than going toe to toe with his flatmate over the Boundaries... _again_... John simply nodded in acceptance and went to make his morning cup of tea, along with toast from the last of the safe bread.

"You can wear this when we go," Sherlock instructed as John settled in his armchair with his tea, toast and morning paper. A bag was thrust into John's lap and he counted himself lucky not to be wearing his breakfast as a result. A posh logo graced the side of the bag, which proved to contain a charcoal grey shirt with higher thread count than John had in his _sheets_ and a cashmere jumper in black with a subtle cable knit woven through the front. John knew from past experience that to protest over the expense of the gift would merely offend Sherlock. After the three day silence that had resulted after the Birthday Fiasco, John knew better than to offer to pay for part of the gift, or even try to turn the gift down.

"Um, why?" John asked, momentarily startled out of his customary good manners, "I mean, thanks. Why are we dressing up?"

"Mummy likes us to be smartly dressed; I thought these would suit you," Sherlock shrugged, already turning away to rummage in a stack of books and papers behind his chair, "You like them don't you? They're in your usual style."

"Yes," John replied simply to both questions, then let his smile bleed into his voice when it became evident that Sherlock wasn't going to emerge from behind the armchair any time soon, "You've got good taste."

There was no reply to that, but John could practically _see_ the smugness from where he was sitting.

0o0o0

In the taxi, things took a turn for the bizarre, which was saying something considering some of the cases that Sherlock had taken John on in the last few months. Sherlock was wearing his usual impeccably tailored clothing, in suitably dramatic colours, but he kept fiddling with John's. The veteran had decided to wear his suit trousers with the jumper and dress shoes rather than his usual boots or trainers and thought the ensemble looked quite nice. Sherlock fiddled with his collar first, then his sleeves and when long and nervous fingers reached for the hem of the jumper John drew the line and caught them in his own, gripping firmly and pinning them to his own thigh.

"You're making me nervous," John said firmly, well aware that the cabbie had jumped to a conclusion or two of his own and was now smirking at the 'couple' sitting in the back, on their way to the First Meeting of Family - capital letters definitely included.

"i'm sorry," Sherlock whispered stiffly and then turned resolutely to the window, staring so fixedly out of it that John knew he wasn't looking out properly. Long fingers curled through John's refusing to let go and John took a deep breath, blowing it out in a frustrated sigh.

"Look, if you're that worried, I can get out at the next set of lights. Tell them that Harry called me on the way here and I needed to go help her," John offered, trying not to be hurt that Sherlock was regretting the idea of introducing him to his family. True, he didn't want Sherlock to particularly meet Harry, but then again John didn't want much to do with her either. He should have made a bigger fuss about not going when Sherlock sprung it on him before breakfast. He didn't want to embarrass his friend after all, which Sherlock was apparently worried he'd do.

"No, no, no John!" Sherlock burst out, "That is precisely the opposite of what I'm worried about!"

"You know, it would be nice, Sherlock, if I could at least pretend that what I think is private," John protested wearily, "The whole mind reading bit? Not too good. Some people have this old fashioned notion that what they think is private..."

"Yes, yes, I understand," Sherlock waved his free hand - he'd yet to relinquish John's - to cut his friend off, "It appears that you don't! I'm not worried about them meeting you - you would hardly have lasted with me if you were hopelessly mundane. I'm worried about you meeting them!"

"Thanks," John growled, "Mundane? Is that like being an idiot? But then, everyone is, according to you."

"John..." Sherlock sighed, squirmed in his seat and then squared his shoulders in a childishly defensive gesture that caught John's attention and made him _really_ listen to what was not being said, "I'm a product of my upbringing."

It was a real lightbulb moment. Sherlock was worried that John would be... put off, maybe... by the Holmes family. That by introducing them, Sherlock was risking the rejection of his friend. John nodded to show he understood and then offered a crooked grin to his friend.

"How about I tell you a deduction I've made about your family?" he offered, knowing that Sherlock liked to pick his deductions apart. The familiar action would calm his friend and maybe give John a chance to alleviate some of his concerns, "Your parents are both highly intelligent. One is involved in the sciences, the other has pursued extensive academic studies in literature. When they realised the level of intelligence that you and your brother possess your parents decided to enrich you both at home as much as possible, fitting you in around their own academic pursuits. Your family home was either quite bohemian in appearance, or extremely neat - which explains the state of our flat. You're either rebelling against a childhood pattern or accustomed to the level of chaos that we laughably call our front room. Mycroft takes more after the literary parent in his interests, and you after the scientist, though your vocabulary comes from them both."

There was a long moment of silence, in which John began to worry that he'd offended his friend, then the fingers in his flexed and Sherlock quirked a small smile.

"I'd be more impressed if you'd deduced the exact fields of interest and the gender of the parent that Mycroft and I chose to follow, but you are correct in general and one or two particulars," was the dry comment. John could see that his friend was a lot more relaxed in his seat, though, which made the risk of revealing his deductions worth it. John huffed in reply, feigning impatience.

0o0o0

The family home was large, in an upscale area of London that was accustomed to mansions and the accouterments that came with them. A hundred years ago there would have been carriages and liveried servants and peacocks on the front lawn. John thought about the comfortable, crowded and slightly rundown terraced home he'd grown up in with a wry twist of the lips, but shrugged the difference off by the time the front door opened to reveal a tall, slender woman with Sherlock's curly hair.

"Sherlock!" she beamed and drew him into a close embrace. The muffled 'hello Mummy' identified her to John and he smiled when she released her son.

"Mummy, this is my friend John Watson," Sherlock said, waving a hand at John who wondered if he was the only one who noticed the nervous tone in those words, "John this is Mummy."

"Please, call me Emmaline, Dr Watson," she murmured, holding out a hand which John took and shook gently.

"Pleased to meet you, Emmaline, and it's John," he replied. They stepped inside and Sherlock shut the door carelessly, letting it bang. The echo resounded through the reception hall, bouncing off family heirlooms and polished marble floors. Emmaline tutted mildly, a sound so well practiced that John imagined she'd been making it at her son since he was old enough to get into trouble.

Mycroft was waiting in the parlour - more antiques, floor rugs and a fireplace large enough for a family of four to live in - along with a mildly portly man with Sherlock's nose. Sherlock shook his hand and introduced John, which garnered him an invitation to call Daddy by his name - Sherringford - and a chance to say hello to Mycroft.

Sherlock had evidently timed their arrival to the second as dinner was announced not long after that and John followed Mycroft and his parents to the dining room, which contained the expected large table, highly polished and set with what seemed to be the good silver.

Dinner conversation veered from the wildly normal - inquiries about work, day to day life and the health of both siblings - to the almost incomprehensible. Emmaline was a researcher in the field of chemistry, though her studies were too esoteric for John to follow fully. Sherringford held multiple PhD's in literature, and John fared a little better there as he was fairly widely read himself. For the rest of it, he kept quiet and watched the body language around the table with interest. The Holmes family were used to what Harry would have called 'high flying' - they held their conversation on so many different levels and at one point languages - that an outsider was only able to access the most basic and surface meaning.

He wasn't upset by this - John knew that all families had their in-jokes and history. In a way it was a kind of compliment that they would be themselves in front of him - his mother had always insisted that they practice 'company manners' in front of certain guests.

As dinner ended the phone went, summoning Emmaline away, and Sherringford insisted that Sherlock help him fetch the coffee and deserts in while Mycroft showed John back to the parlour.

"Shall I translate some of the dinner conversation for you John?" Mycroft asked as they walked back along the hall to their destination. John bristled at once, resenting the implication that he was too thick to figure it out for himself. He was no genius, but his academic record was not _that_ bad.

"No, that won't be at all necessary," John replied in the Voice. The one that he'd used in Afghanistan, the one that meant you'd just made a very serious error in judgement and were only a step away from immanent doom. Mycroft didn't say anything more, though he did make sure to choose a chair away from John when they both sat down.

0o0o0

In the taxi on the way home, Sherlock was once again on the fidget. John put up with it for a few blocks and then reached over and caught hold of nervous fingers, trapping them in his own.

"Your parents were very nice, Sherlock. Relax. I'm not planning to move out or slang your family off in my blog," he told his friend and pretended not to notice when Sherlock relaxed at once. He grinned at his friend and leaned back in the seat himself, looking out of his own window at the passing city. He loosened his grip on Sherlock's fingers, but the consulting detective showed no interest in freeing his digits, pulling his phone out with his free hand and tapping away dexterously as the taxi wended its way through the Sunday afternoon traffic.

"Next week we'll go to yours for dinner," Sherlock announced as they pulled up outside Baker Street, "I've just confirmed it with your mother."

John choked as his flatmate swept from the taxi and across the footpath to the front door - leaving him to pay the cabbie who was grinning quite knowingly at him.

"My other half is just as bad, mate," the cabbie chuckled as he made change for John, "Completely impossible, but what would we do without them?"

For a moment John contemplated protesting that they weren't a couple, they weren't married, that he wasn't gay... but decided it wasn't worth the argument. The man had a point after all, Sherlock was John's saving grace. He shuddered to think what he'd have done if he hadn't met a flatmate that combined outrageous experiments, a penchant for solving unusual crimes and an endearingly skewed idea of friendship and personal boundaries in one exotic package.

"Yeah," he nodded instead and followed Sherlock up into the flat.

END

Disclaimer - characters and setting as depicted by the BBC not mine. Plot is.


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